


"Unacceptable. Try again."

by AuthorinExile



Series: Fictober 2020 [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Antivan (Dragon Age) Language, Background Leliana (Dragon Age), F/M, If I Botched the One Line of Spanish Here, Mutual Pining, No I didn't bcause it's Antivan not Spanish, Pining, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sparring, Sweet Zevran Arainai, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Zevran Arainai being Zevran Arainai, Zevran Arainai is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29390325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorinExile/pseuds/AuthorinExile
Summary: Alistair is head over heels for Tabris, Tabris is clueless, Zevran is mischievous, and the Qunari don't love quite the way other people do.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Tabris (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age), Queerplatonic Sten/Warden (Dragon Age), Sten/Female Tabris (Dragon Age), Sten/Warden (Dragon Age)
Series: Fictober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147928
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	"Unacceptable. Try again."

**Author's Note:**

> Alistair and my Warden danced around each other for ages. This is the result of that.
> 
> Also, Tabris was trained by her mother in canon, but Adaia has been dead for years by the time Origins happens, so I headcanon that the others trained her up a bit to help her relearn her skills.

Yusaris sweeps down in a beautiful arc, the words on the blade glinting in the moonlight. The sword is as long as Tabris is tall, so large she has to strap it to her back at an angle to keep it from leaving a trail in the ground behind her, but she wields it as effortlessly as she would a blade of grass. Her every movement is precise and devastating. Behind her helmet, her eyes are hard flecks of stone, narrowed and focused and painfully calculating. Her breath leaves her in hard exhales, each carefully controlled to maximize its usefulness to her.

Alistair imagines her muscles twisting and coiling with every movement, but of course, her heavy plate armor hides the sight from him. 

With one final spin and a mighty blow to the poor tree selected for this week’s sparring sessions, Tabris sinks the blade of Yusaris into the earth. With any other sword, Alistair would wince and warn her about dulling or scratching the blade. Yusaris sinks into the soil as if it were butter. The blade will be wholly unharmed, as always.

Tabris rips her helmet off to reveal the cocky grin underneath. She catches Alistair’s eye and spares him a wink, but she turns to face Sten before she can notice Alistair’s blush of a reply. 

“Well,” she says in that voice that’s always a mere step away from being teasing, “what do you think?”

Sten, serving as Tabris’ mentor for the night, carefully surveys the training area. His eyes move over the ground in the path Tabris’ feet had taken, obviously replaying her motions in his mind. Still silent, he steps forward to examine the mark of the blow she dealt the tree. Sten hums noncommittally before walking back to his position. He spares a single glance for Tabris’ hopeful but cautious expression before his eyes harden.

“Unacceptable,” he delivers monotonously. “Try again.”

Tabris releases a squawk of indignation, obviously ready to argue the decision, but the furrowing of Sten’s brow silences her. She snaps her jaw shut, shifting on her feet and choosing her words carefully.

“Alright,” she says with a weighty exhale. “What can I correct?”

“You’re not lifting the blade enough. The blow delivered from that move should land much higher than it did.”

Tabris stares, stunned.

“Sten, I’m three feet shorter than you.”

Alistair, taken aback by the sheer disbelief in Tabris’s voice, barks out a quick laugh. He silences quickly when both warriors turn their glares on him.

“Only two and a half feet, actually,” Sten corrects, pulling his gaze back to Tabris and recapturing her attention. “Though I assure you that I have already considered that, kadan.”

Tabris softens immediately at the pet name and deflates soon after.

“Alright, yeah,” she says. “I’ll try again.”

She retrieves Yusaris, muttering about the  _ stupid sword _ and  _ why’s it so big anyway _ and  _ dumb shems and their dumb weapons _ the entire time. Alistair’s mind boggles to hear Yusaris itself, a blade literally out of legend, being described that way, but Tabris has never cared much for useless items. Alistair knows without a doubt that if it had been damaged at all, she would have left it in the pile of debris left behind by the demon she looted it from. If they ever find a better weapon, which Alistair doubts is possible, she’ll trade Yusaris for it in an instant. Tabris is a creature of practicality, and she won’t suffer the presence of useless things.

Alistair feels his eyes being pulled across camp to the tent where his bag rests and tries his best not to think about the one very useless but very beautiful thing he’s been hoping she would accept.

“Enjoying the view?”

Alistair jumps with a muffled curse and turns to meet Zevran’s cheeky smirk with a glare. When Zevran wags his eyebrows and glances toward Tabris meaningfully, Alistair flushes beneath the glare.

“Don’t be crude,” he hisses.

“Ah, I would never dream of it. Crude? Me? Alistair, my friend, you insult me.”

Zevran pauses, adopting an expression of perfectly unremarkable innocence. Alistair continues to glare. In fact, Alistair doubles down on his glare. Might as well, right? Zevran probably deserves it for something or other.

“Although, you must admit,” Zevran finally cracks, his expression changing into something downright inappropriate at Alistair’s indignant huff, “it is a  _ very _ nice view.”

Alistair shifts his glare into a glower, which feels more appropriate, but Zevran merely leans around him and hums appreciatively. His face goes through a series of rather interesting changes, and Alistair, weak coward that he is, breaks his resolve and turns to see Tabris shucking her armor, apparently finished with the night’s training. Her plate has already been removed, and she pulls her gambeson off to reveal her undershirt clinging to her with sweat.

“I  _ knew _ it,” Zevran says triumphantly, jovially punching Alistair’s shoulder. 

Alistair curses his shitty gambling face and wishes he was still wearing his own armor so that Zevran’s hand would’ve broken on impact. Maybe then he could have escaped this conversation and found a way to ignore the blood rushing through his face.

“Look at you,” Zevran coos, practically vibrating with excitement. “This is wonderful news. Leliana owes me ten silver.”

“Shut up,” Alistair hisses, going as still as a statue at the sound of footsteps and voices approaching from behind.

“Aw,” Zevran coos with faux disappointment. “You don’t want to tell her? Don’t you think she deserves to know? Our lovely wonderful  _ beautiful _ Tabris--”

“Yes?”

Alistair  _ squeaks _ in surprise and spins to see her standing behind him, smiling kindly and gently confused and obviously under the impression that they just called for her.

“Oh,” Zevran says coyly, winking at Alistair’s horrified face, “just that Alistair has something very  _ very _ dreadfully important to tell you.”

Tabris turns back to Alistair, more confused but now also amused by Zevran’s usual antics. 

Alistair swallows the urge to strangle Zevran to death in front of the Maker and all their friends and says, “Not that important. Well, a little important, but not. Not uh. Not  _ that _ important, really, just the… the usual amount of importance that everything has right now while the world’s ending, you know. Just a. Totally normal, reasonable amount of importance.” Zevran kicks his shin, and Alistair blurts, “I have a headache. Bloody awful one. Can’t even believe I’m standing right now, to be honest. Not sure I should go out with you and Da’Fen and Leliana tomorrow.”

Tabris’ confusion melts away into sympathy.

“Oh, Alistair,” she says, wincing and dropping her volume out of consideration for his imaginary headache, “I’m so sorry. Is it...the Taint? The nightmares and such, I mean?”

“Yep,” Alistair forces out. He’s already dug this deep. What’re a few more feet? “And, you know, between the nightmares and the constant fighting and all this travel-- I-It’s just sorta taken its toll, I suppose.”

Tabris nods understandingly and sets a gentle hand on his upper arm, and Alistair feels ready to combust.

“I understand completely,” Tabris says so genuinely that Alistair wants to apologize for lying immediately. “I’ll ask Wynne to make that headache tonic she’s so good with. You get some sleep, okay?”

Tabris smiles sweetly and drifts back into the center of camp. Alistair watches her go until Sten catches his eyes and raises his brows, at which point Alistair turns back around--and then regrets  _ that _ immediately when he sees the absolutely  _ delighted _ expression on Zevran’s face.

“Eres un idiota hermoso,” Zevran says with so much feeling that Alistair knows immediately it is at least mostly an insult. 

“ _ Alistair _ ,” Zevran continues, cheeks stretching and voice becoming increasingly cheerful, “I didn’t know you were getting me a Saturnalia present early! I can’t believe you would let yourself crash and burn like that all for me! You’re so thoughtful!”

Alistair’s vision tunnels down onto the pull of Zevran’s grin and he thinks,  _ Your fault. _

With all of the weight a Templar’s oath should have, Alistair says, “I am going to kill you,” and lunges.

Zevran, shrieking with laughter, bolts out of his reach with typical elven speed and grace, and Alistair pursues.


End file.
